But how—how—impossible, Sir.
Let me have my own way, I beseech you—leave me to take care of myself....
No, Sir ... we know our duty better.
Then, Sir, as I hope to see my God, I will go forth alone to meet the savages, and offer myself up for the chief that I have slain. Perhaps they may receive me into their tribe ... give me a blanket, will you ... and perhaps not ... for the Pequod warrior is a terrible foe.
Here he shook his black hair loose, and parted it on his forehead and twisted it into a club, and bound it up hastily after the fashion of the tribe.
—And the faith which a Huron owes to the dead is never violated.... I pray you therefore—
—Stooping down and searching for a bit of brick, and grinding it to dust with his heel—
I pray you therefore to let me go forth—
—Bedaubing his whole visage with it, before he lifted his head—
You cannot save me, nor help me—